Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Evie
felt tears gather in her eyes. One dropped to her cheek. Before she
could wipe it away, Tim caught it on his thumb. Bringing it to his
lips, he licked it with a flick of his tongue. Breath caught in
Evie's throat, making her gasp. It was the singularly sweetest, and
sexiest, thing a man had ever done.

"Did
you mean to say that aloud?" Tim leaned close, gazing into her
eyes.

"No.
Kinda slipped out all on its own."

Tim
took her hand, brushing the palm with his thumb. "Believe me, I
want it settled, too. Not just because I'm attracted to you. I want
to see where this goes. I really like you, Evie."

"Me
too."

"Since
the second your hand caught in the door, I've wanted to—" he
raised her hand to his lips, kissing it so gently, she almost didn't
feel it. However, the thrill that ran down her spine was certainly
convincing. His tongue tickled the center of her palm while his thumb
continued to rub in slow circles. He nipped the base of her thumb,
his eyes locked on hers.

Evie
jumped, feeling herself approaching an orgasm. Would he really make
her cum in public? He seemed intent on it. Pulling her hand, Evie
broke the bond, but she couldn't conceal the flush of pleasure he'd
given her.

"I
can delight you even with all your clothing on," he whispered.

"You're
an evil man, Timothy O'Brian," she said as quietly.

"No,
but a damn good one," he replied without conceit.

"Am
I now part of your research, Mister O'Brian?"

"No,
Miss Winthrop. I only wish you were. It would make it a lot more
fun."

They
talked a short while longer, then Tim escorted her upstairs. He
wanted badly to kiss her, but he knew his limitations, and he'd
already exceeded them. Tasting her tears, touching her so innocently,
but erotically, had made him mad with desire. If he allowed himself
more, he would step over the invisible line of no turning back.

Instead,
Tim raised Evie's hand to his lips. He kissed the crest of her wrist
before turning it over to buss the palm. With a little thrill of
deceit, he allowed himself to continue what he started earlier. Her
eyes widened, but she held still, inhaling sharply. Little, breathy
gasps marked his progress. A low moan, accompanied by a shudder
heralded his success. Her eyes, coal black with desire, moved to his
face, questioningly. His smile secretive, Tim brushed her cheek with
his lips. He smelled her sex scent and smiled again.

"Good
night," he growled softly in her ear. "See you tomorrow,
Evelyn."

"B-bye."
She fumbled getting her door open and dashed into her apartment. She
had never been so disconcerted by a man. "I'm a mess!" she
gasped, her back to the door. She slid down to sit on the floor. "How
did he do that?" More to the point, would he do it again?

Friday, August 26, 2016

All
authors are sadists. It's a fact, we have to be. It's really not our
fault. Stories need action, they need conflict, how better to provide
that than to hurl our characters into some difficult situation and
watch them claw their way back out? Hardly seems sporting, does it?

I
suppose we could blame our readers, right? I mean, if the book hasn't
got at least one good argument or a brawl, they feel cheated. If they
feel cheated, they won't buy our books. If they don't buy, we don't
make money – so, conflict, drama, hardship, pain, anguish,
suffering – ensue. Yes, blame it on the readers.

It
seems really mean to create these characters only to watch them
suffer. We make them fall in love with the wrong person who breaks
their hearts. We kill off their loved ones and chase off their dogs.
We leave them hanging from cliffs, flip over their cars and have them
attacked by psycho killers, rabid dogs or murderous biker gangs.
That's okay, I blame the readers for this too.

We
are evil! How do we think of that stuff? Most of the authors I know
are certainly not rabid dog chasing, murderous psychotic car
flipping, cliff dangling bikers. So, how do we think of all this
crazy stuff? I've never been in a gun fight or fought rampageous
aliens in a sentient ship, but I can certainly describe it so my
readers can visualize it. Honestly, I don't know. My characters get
tangled in events that have never happened to me or anyone I know,
yet I figure out ways to make them sound reasonable and plausible.

Some
incidents in my stories really happened, but I elaborate on them,
pushing the limits of believability to make a better story. Although
the scene in The Ninja Tattoo where Teague finds himself in
mysterious convoy on Riverside Drive, is based on something that
really happened to me, I wasn't targeted for death. I didn't hide out
at a cottage in the woods or take down my opponents with drug tipped
knives. (Don't know what I'm talking about? Read the book.)

I'm
pretty sure that nothing in Lone Wolf or Indian Summer
is remotely related to my real life, yet I manage to put them through
their literary paces as well. I'm not sure which of the characters
get treated the worst. I'm sure they could argue the point with me
until we were both hoarse. (Yes, my characters argue with me – deal
with it.) Each of them would scream I'm meaner to them than the
others and probably Manuel and Wil would be the most vocal. However,
I contend that they are still alive at the end of the book and the
villains are not, so maybe they should pipe down.

So
readers, the next time you're reading a particularly sadistic book
full of action, broken hearts and trauma, remember – you have only
yourselves and the characters to blame. The author is, of course,
completely innocent.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

TODAY

Distinguished
as being one of Dellani's first guests, we are pleased to have Mark David Gerson on the show again. He is the author of Sara's Year,
Moonquest Series, Acts of Surrender, Birthing Your Book and many
more. Mark will join us from 4:00 – 5:00

Also
returning is Maria DeVivo , author of Coal Elf and The Rise of Sturd.
Maria will join us 5:00 – 6:00

New
to the show is Dan O'Brien, author of Sixth Prime, Lauren Westlake
Mystery series, Society of Dawn series and many more. Dan will talk
with us and the others from 4:00 – 6:00.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Kara
and Jason have known one another for years, but just started dating
recently. For fun, they decide to go to the beach. While there, Kara
sees her gay friend, Adam, who is a lifeguard. He insists on catching
up, so they take a short stroll down the beach.

"Kara?"
Jason called after her.

She
didn't realize they had walked quite so far from him, giggling like a
couple little kids.

"He's
gonna murder me. Run to him, like the wind!" Adam pushed her
away.

"Because
I would. I may prefer dicks to chicks, but I'm still a guy. He won't
be happy until he knows exactly where I fit into the picture."
He was busily putting lotion on her chest without really thinking
about it, when Jason walked up. "Oh, my God! I'm a dead man."

Jason
stood over them looking down at Adam's hands on her chest. Kara as
laughing so hard, she could hardly sit up. Adam sat there with his
hands on her breasts like they were stuck with glue. He couldn't
move.

"I'm
so embarrassed. I swear, this isn't what it looks like."

"Yeah?
It looks like you're feeling up my lady friend."

"Trust
me, I wasn't." Adam wiped his hands on her chest, rubbing them
on his pants to get the rest of the lotion off. "So before this
starts an argument or you proceed to remove my private parts
painfully through my anus, let me introduce myself." Adam put on
a silly voice, acting like a girl. "Hi, I'm Adam and I'm gay.
Trust me, I'm more interested in you than I am in her. Oh, that
didn't come out right either. Help me, Kara."

"Adam
and I were on swim team together. He was my bedroom buddy." She
explained about their relationship.

Before
she was finished, Jason was laughing. "Oh, now it all makes
sense. I was getting this weird vibe from you, man. I thought—well,
who knows what I thought. I don't even know."

"Her
breasts and other parts are safe from my ravaging," Adam assured
him. "There were times when I wished I didn't prefer men. Did
you notice that sexy mole she's got on her...."

"Okay,
Adam. He doesn't have to know you saw me naked."

"What?
Before I did? No fair. Now I'm jealous. So," he looked at Adam.
"It didn't do anything for you?"

"Maybe
a flicker. It was disappointing as hell. There was this gorgeous girl
naked in the shower and I didn't even want to fuck her."

"Oh,
that's just sacrilegious, dude. The female form is to be worshiped
and admired. This body proves the existence of God."

"And
do you worship often?" Adam pulled a serious face, examining it
like a scientific discovery.

"As
often as possible. I believe in a full range of religious
experiences, especially before breakfast and after supper."

"You're
right," Kara fussed at Adam. "You're still a guy. I am
here, you know. I haven't left and I'm not deaf."

"It's
okay, sweetie. We're done now. Hey, are you going to the party at
what's her name's lake house this weekend?"

"Which
what's her name and what lake house?" Jason asked, taking a sip
of his drink.

"Oh,
that tacky one with the big lips and the fake tits. She works with
Kara at the Pub."

"Trina's
got a lake house? What party?"

"I
don't know. All I heard was a big party out there. Pretty sure it's
her. I could be wrong. Who knows with those things?"

"We've
got other plans," Jason said, putting his arms around Kara.

"I
don't want to be reminded about anything pertaining to work,"
Kara laid her head on Jason's chest, snuggling into his embrace.
"I've got more important things on my mind."

"Okay,
I'm going over there," Adam pointed to his tower. "And I'm
going to pretend you don't exist. Do me a favor though. Don't hump
her in public. That's such poor taste."

Friday, August 19, 2016

Authors
look at life from a unique angle. What seems like a regular day to
anyone else, presents opportunities to an author. Each event stays in
our memory banks, waiting to be used for a short story, novel or
poem. We withdraw from the bank as needed, adding to the balance of
our stories.

I
find myself going through my day, listening and watching, always
thinking if something will eventually make it into a book. I don't
consciously remember them, nor do I plan to add things, they just
sort of show up.

It
amazes my husband that every time I go out, I come back with a story.
Whether it be a conversation that took place in the store, a
near-miss accident on the road, or crazy people in the parking lot at
the mall, I always have something.

Do
these things happen to other people? Seriously. Does everyone have a
crazy, drunk lady walk up to them in the mall parking lot and ask if
her hair looks all right? She's obviously wearing a cheap wig, okay?
It looks horrible. Do I say that? Oh, hell no! “It looks
lovely,” I reply as I quickly get in my car and lock the door.

Did
anyone else notice the old lady in Panera Bread who stood ahead of me
in line? I doubt it, but it stuck with me so much, I finally had to
write it down. The line was long and a young man ahead of us had on a
black Pantera jacket. The lettering was pale yellow and a
white skull was behind the T, making it look like it said
Panera.

“Why
do you suppose he's standing in this long line,” she asked her
husband in a worried tone. “If he works here, shouldn't he be able
to walk up and get whatever he wants?” She carried on like that for
some time.

I
couldn't let the poor old darling keep thinking that he worked there,
could I? She was getting herself all worked up. So I spoke to her.

“It
doesn't say Panera. It says Pantera. The T is obscured by a
skull.”

“Oh.
What does that mean?”

“Pantera
is a heavy metal band.”

“Heavy
what?”

“Heavy
metal – hard rock.”

“Oh!
Fancy you knowing a thing like that.”

“I
have teenagers,” I said, diplomatically. I didn't have the heart to
tell the old dear that I'd been listening to Cowboys from Hell
moments before walking into the store.

My
daughter and I were once in Winn Dixie doing some shopping. She
wanted a case of sodas, so we loaded up some Coca-Cola. A little
further down the aisle, we saw Pepsi was on sale, so we backed up the
cart saying, in unison, “No Coke. Pepsi.” Like they did in the
old Saturday Night Live skit. An elderly gentleman walked
around the corner just as we said that. I'm sure he thought we were
both completely insane.

Though
my daughter isn't an author, she has equally strange things happen to
her. She called me once and told me some man had come up to her in
the store. “Obviously, English was not his first language,” she
imparted. “He smiled and said, How may I pronounce your name?”

Another
time, she told me she'd seen a man going down the street, talking in
sign language. He was apparently having an argument with himself. He
would stand one way, gesture and fling the comments at another
person. Then the second person would
reply – different stance, but same aggressive gestures. He will one
day make it into a book.

Random
people I meet at the grocery store have been included in several
books, some of them, not too favorably. The old woman who purposely
hit me with her shopping cart – she's there. The older couple who
blocked the sweet potatoes and couldn't hear when I asked to get
around them – they're in another. The kindly gentleman who gave me
advice in the wine section, he's also there, but more favorably.

The
point I'm making is that inspiration comes from a variety of sources,
but the most important for any author is the ability to observe.
Everything you see, hear, smell or feel can be used to enhance a
story. Never pass up an opportunity to deposit in your memory bank.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Putting
his sunglasses on, Johnny settled in his chair, his arms behind his
head. He closed his eyes, a half smile playing at his lips.

I
reached into the ice chest, taking out a handful of ice and water.
Before I could toss it on him, he leaped forward and grabbed my hand,
forcing me to drop the water. His kiss was electric, his strong body
pressed against mine, gently pinning me to my chair.

"I
know you, Renabean. Don't even," he said changing his grip on my
hand, "think of putting that cold hand down the back of my
pants."

"I
hadn't planned to."

I
nibbled his nose, easing my wrist out of his grasp. Distracting him
with a little tongue action, I slipped my hand down the front of his
shorts, dropping the ice cubes. His howl echoed off the condos behind
us as he jumped off my chair, dancing around as he tried to dislodge
the ice.

"Oh,
ow! You wait, young lady! I'll get you for that!"

He
hopped to the water, grabbing at the front of his pants. About knee
deep, he dropped them, mooning Randy, the girls and me. I rolled on
the sand, laughing my ass off. The girls giggled, checking out his
fine ass. Randy didn't know what to think, he just shifted uneasily
in his seat, one hand guarding the family jewels.

Johnny
pulled up his pants and ran up the beach, roaring angrily. He wasn't
really mad, but he was going to get me back. I sat on the cooler,
holding it with both hands.

"Oh,
no! You're not getting in this cooler!"

He
grabbed me off the cooler with ease, holding me to him as he nibbled
my neck. His lips were soft and sensuous, moving from my neck to my
ear, and then my lips. His grip was gentle, but unyielding, as his
hands and lips traveled over my body. I felt myself melting inside.

I
knew he was using it as a distraction. His revenge would be
unexpected and devious. If I didn't know him so well, I would have
been lulled into the belief that he had completely forgotten about
anything but kissing me.

Suddenly,
Johnny lifted me in his strong arms, still kissing me, only I knew he
was about to exact his revenge. He walked down the beach and threw me
in the water. Kicking and flailing, I sank below the shallow surf,
taking in a mouthful of salty water as I tried to catch a breath. I
stood up, coughing and blowing water in his face as he laughed at me.

Grabbing
his shorts, I pulled him toward me, kissing him passionately. My
right hand held a secret. As Johnny stood next to me, I poured wet
sand down the front of his pants, earning another howl. I dashed up
the beach as he dove into the water, dropping his shorts again to
wash the sand off.

"Rena,
I'll get you for that! Dammit, now I've got sand on my balls! Rena!"
He struggled into his pants, fastening them as he followed me out of
the water.

I
ran around the base of the lifeguard tower, dodged behind trash bins
and out into the surf. After a couple minutes of running, I let him
catch me. His kiss set my pulse racing. I couldn't tell if he was
going to do something to me or not, but I knew I was in for it.
Instead of being angry, though, he couldn't get enough of me. His
hands and lips explored everywhere they could reach. I could feel him
hard and hot against me, and worried that maybe I'd finally gone too
far. I admit, I was getting a little nervous. For the moment, I
enjoyed the extra attention.

Randy's
voice broke the mood, calling to us. "Hey, Rena, you two need to
get a room!"

Friday, August 12, 2016

Hello,
my name is Dellani and I'm an author. I'm here today because I have a
writing crutch. Admit it. Be honest with yourself – we all have
them. They differ from one to the next, but we all have our little
things that we do. It's our safety net.

I
don't know about the rest of you, but mine is the hospital. Just when
things seem to be going well, someone breaks a leg, has an asthma
attack, gives birth, has a heart attack, gets beaten up, nearly
drowns or has a car accident.

Looking
through my finished (and unfinished) books, I took a count of how
many of my stories involve someone being in the hospital or receiving
medical attention. Just to satisfy my own curiosity, I counted them
up. Of the 137 novels and novellas (finished and unfinished) polled:
90 involved someone receiving medical attention. 52 do not. These
numbers are slightly mutable. If I couldn't remember specifically if
there were medical issues, I counted them in the not medical
attention category.

That's
a lot of broken bones, babies, accidents, shootings, stabbings,
amputations, near drownings, head injuries, heart attacks, beatings,
surgeries or asthma attacks! I have a high number of very unfortunate
characters.

I
guess this is my version of Raymond Chandler's plot crutch. “When
in doubt, make a guy come through the door with a gun in his hand.”
Only mine would be, “When in doubt, send someone to the hospital.”

I
try to get away from it. Really, I do! I have rewritten more than one
story to avoid it, but they keep coming back again and again. Of
course, it doesn't help that several of my stories involve medical
people. Then there are the ones that involve the every day Joe
becoming a hero. Of course, he's going to get hurt. That's a given.

Just
ask any of my heroes. They will tell you that the movies have it
wrong. You can't crawl through an attic, kick out a wall, hop down
onto a water fountain and not end up in a heap on the floor with a
bone protruding through the skin.

Or
they can tell you that you when you tackle an intruder on the stairs,
one of you is gonna end up with a concussion. Not always the bad guy,
either.

Crawl
through broken glass and get cut up – check. Get in a fight to the
death with psychopaths – check. Knife fight followed by a shootout
with sadistic bikers – check. Gunfights, sword fights, fist fights,
chick fights – check.

Tuesday, August 09, 2016

Alton
and Velda is a fantasy I've been working on. Revanth is a man who's
been enchanted into a horse by a swamp naiad named Eleion. He and his
Wood Sprite friend, Alton, go to see her to get her to break the
spell, so they can rescue their lady loves.

“You
seem quite certain you can defeat me, Wood Sprite. Here in the heart
of my swamp, I am queen. You might harm me, but my swamp will swallow
you alive before you can enjoy it.”

“Will
you help us?”

She
eyed them critically. “I don't know.”

“I
give you one last chance to say yes,” Alton said. “Will you,
Eleion the Witch, help us?”

“Not
today.”

Suddenly,
she was off her feet, hanging in mid air. Screeching, she flailed
around, trying to work her magic. An unseen force kept her airborne.
Alton smiled up at her.

“You're
sure, are you? That's your final answer? I can keep you up there
indefinitely, Witch. A Wood Sprite has a few skills, you know.”

“Not
this, not an air spell! How can you? You're of the Earth and Wood.”

“That
would be telling. I can leave you, high and dry, until you dry up and
fall to dust,” Alton said. “Or, you can give us the aid we
require. Which is it?”

“I'll
help you!”

“You
will give your unimpeded word,” Alton said. “You are bound by it,
just as I am. You will not harm us in any way, nor will you cause,
directly or indirectly, for harm to come to us. You will not impede
us, nor cause us to be impeded. You will not slow us—”

“Enough!
Obviously, you have dealt with my kind before.”

“I
have dealt with you enough to know that I will say the rest of the
oath, or I'll kill you now and leave you to rot in your filthy
swamp.”

He
continued to bind her will and intentions, giving her the Deal
Maker's Oath. It was equally binding to both parties. If she wanted
to be protected, she had to accept.

“Do
I have your promise that you will not harm me if I help you?”
Eleion said, somewhat subdued.

“You
have my promise that I will not harm you, if you aid us as we need.”

The
rest of the deal was struck. Alton, having dealt with witches a time
or two dozen before, knew how to give her very little leeway. As
protected as he could hope to be, he spit on his palm, lowering her
enough to clasp her spit covered palm.

“Let
me down,” Eleion demanded. “I can't work up here.”

“As
you wish,” Alton said, lowering her with a thump.

Eleion
advanced, poking her long, sharp nailed finger into his chest. “I
know you, Sprite. You and I have crossed paths before. We shall
again. The next time, I won't wait for a deal, I'll kill you where
you stand.”

“You'll
try,” Alton said with a smile. “Now, for our deal. You have
agreed to change my friend back to his former self. And no tricks, or
your head is mine.”

Digging
her toes into the mud, Eleion spoke in a guttural language that made
Alton's skin crawl. The hair on his head and body stood at attention,
making him feel quite peculiar. It was nothing to the effect it had
on Revanth. He collapsed to his knees, gulping and retching. His body
shivered and shook, his bones snapping and cracking. The horse
writhed on the ground, pawing the air with his hooves as he tried to
breathe. With a scream that sounded as much human as horse, he lay
still.

A
moan at his feet greeted his sensitive ears. The horse body fell to
black dust, coating the naked man within. Squinting against the
light, Revanth rolled to his hands and knees. Rocking back on his
heels, he raised his hands in front of his face, marveling at them.

“I'm
myself again! I am a man! Thank you, Eleion!” He grasped her arms
as if he intended to kiss her, but stopped himself. “You did this
to me, you foul hag!” He took a step toward her, but stopped as his
feet took root in the mud. Wild-eyed, he gazed beseechingly at his
friend.

“Peace,
brother. You have thanked her for your release, but take no action
against her.” His dark green eyes flickered and he shook his head.

“I
lost myself for a moment. Brother, do you have spare clothing? I can
hardly walk around the land without my pants.”

Alton
chuckled, digging in his pack. He handed Revanth his clothing. The
binding on him receded and he was able to dress.

“The
other part of our deal, Witch,” Alton said. “I don't wish to
sully my blade with that swamp water you call blood.”

“You
could make an effort to be more polite, Alton of Lyndon Meade,”
Eleion spat. “You don't remember, do you? Who I am? How we met?”
She grasped him firmly between the legs, rubbing hungrily. “Do you
remember now—lover?”

Taking
a step back, he pushed at her. “I remember you did your best to
suck the life from me and leave me to die—lover. Ill met one night
when I'd had more mead than sense. A less than satisfactory tumble, I
must say.”

“Wait!”
Revanth said, struggling with his pants. “You know her?”

“In
every sense of the word,” Alton replied, his tone cold. “She
lured me to her, pretending to be Velda. It was the first time I was
unfaithful, shortly after we met. Then, the witch tried to kill me
for her amusement. Velda banished her here, to live the best she
could amongst the slime and putrid gasses. You deserved worse. Your
sister was kind.”

“They
are sisters?” Revanth paled. “Is that why you told us to
seek her out? Why you ruined my life? Revenge because she had the man
you couldn't have, except by trickery?”

Revanth
snatched Alton's sword from his scabbard. Swinging it in a tight arc,
he severed Eleion's head from her shoulders. The ground rumbled as
her head fell. The water rose, lapping and grabbing at their feet.

“Run!”
Alton urged. “The swamp will eat us alive if we give it a chance.”

They
followed Old Jon to his holding. The world around them shuddered and
shook violently. Trees, bushes and grasses tried to trip them.
Animals crossed their path, but they cast them aside. Once back at
Old Jon's land, they stopped running. Though the trees and mud
writhed and reached for them, they could do no harm to the three men.
Gulping air, Revanth leaned over, supporting himself with his hands
on his knees.

“I
broke the deal. I killed the witch! What have I done?”

“Saved
us all a lot of trouble,” Old Jon said, grinning. “And you didn't
break the deal.”

“But
how? We promised no harm would come to her.”

“No,”
Alton said, smirking. “I
promised I would do her no harm. I never said you
wouldn't. When she said you will not harm me, she chose to
mean both of us. But, you couldn't speak then, only I. You couldn't
give your word, therefore, the oath wasn't binding to you. For the
purpose of the deal, you meant only me. One small word has
saved us from destruction.”

Our
first guest today is not only an incredible author, she's another of
our Red River Radio hosts and a dear friend. Please welcome BarbaraEhrentreu, author of After and If I Could Be Like Jennifer
Taylor. Welcome, Barbara!

Our
next guest is author Eric Williams. His book is Edric the
Hatchling Gryphon and
Edric the Gryphon Prince. Welcome back, Eric.

Our
third guest is new to Tea Time and we are thrilled to have her here.
We met during a Facebook Christmas in July event. Please help me
welcome Barb Caffrey, author of Elfy on the Loose and
A Little Elfy in Big Trouble, as
well as Survive the Maelstrom, A Dark and Stormy Night and
Joey Maverick which she co-wrote with her late husband, Michael.
Welcome, Barb.

Friday, August 05, 2016

I
suppose some would call me old fashioned. I like to hear people
express themselves appropriately. I grew up in a household where my
sentences were corrected as I spoke. Sometimes, I couldn't even
complete a sentence, because of the corrections. I did the same to my
children. Not saying that it's the best approach, but I learned early
how to speak properly. I also learned how to write.

My
father was an English professor. My mother was a teacher. I didn't
have a snowball's chance of growing up without a working knowledge of
English. As my father told me once, “You may not know the names for
what's wrong, but you recognize the error and know how to fix it.”
Then he handed me a manuscript, written by a college professor, that
he was editing for publication. Pressing a blue editor's pencil in my
hand, he told me to have at it. And I did.

We
rewrote 95% of that book because it was so poorly written, it was
indecipherable. That was my maiden voyage into the world of editing.
I like to hope I did well.

After
this trial by fire in editing, I knew the world of writing was my
chosen course. I deviated somewhat, choosing theatre as a major, but
after that, I went into English and became a teacher. From there, the
natural progression was into writing. I've never regretted it. I love
writing.

What
I don't like is the blatant disregard for the written, and spoken,
word. No one cares how they express themselves. It doesn't worry them
that they sound stupid or ignorant. Calling something art does not
allow a complete disregard for grammatical conventions. It's fine
once in awhile. Many authors break the rules from time to time.
However, occasionally breaking a rule with full knowledge of the
inaccuracy is completely different from consistently breaking it
because you're too ignorant to know better.

If
you want to write, learn how. Don't expect your talent to
carry you, because it won't. There are a lot of wonderful stories out
there that are so poorly written, no one will ever read them. People
who read books know the difference between a grammatical sentence and
garbage. Don't insult them and embarrass yourself by writing badly.

Not
sure if something is correct? Ask someone. Show it to a teacher,
another writer, a journalist—anyone who puts words on paper can be
helpful. If you don't know any of the above, do you know a rabbi,
minister or priest? They, too, make their living with words. Their
venue is the spoken word, but there are still conventions of grammar
and language that carry over.

Visit
your local library and see if they have any writing groups you can
join. Most of these are free, with volunteers teaching them. If they
don't have one, start your own. You don't have to be an expert. You
can invite others to join. Together, you can explore the amazing
adventure of writing.

Tuesday, August 02, 2016

Miranda
Karev has lived across the hall from Jeffry Stanton for just over a
year. For nine months of that time, they were a couple—until Jeff
said he loved her. Haunted by fears of abandonment, she breaks it
off. Lucky for her, Jeff decides he wants another chance and Miranda
does too. Unfortunately, her therapist has suggested she give
celibacy a try, so they are spending the weekend snowed in and
getting to know each other—without sex. Her co-worker calls to make
sure she's all right.

My
phone rang. I thought it might be Dr. Meyers.

"Hiya,
Randi. It's Dave. You okay?"

"Yes.
Got our power and water. You?"

"Not
bad. We're partying over here."

I
could hear talking and music in the background. Dave, his younger
brother and many of the other tech people and actors lived in
apartments over the theater. Brent and Shaine let them live there
rent free. They did help with utility bills, but the lack of city
rent was nice. Brent offered me one, but I already had this place
when I started working there. Jeffry and I had just met.

"Sounds
like you're having fun."

"Yeah,
not bad. Don't suppose you want to come over?"

"We
can't. That's a long way on foot and our parking lot is blocked by an
eight foot wall of snow."

"Hadn't
thought of that. Well, wanted to check on you."

"Thanks,
Dave. Tell everyone I said hi. We're fine."

"We...."
He said, sounding very disappointed. "So, working out with
Jeff?"

"Yes.
I'm sorry."

"Hey,
that's life, right? Lost opportunities and broken chances. I guess
I'm gonna polish off this bottle of Cuervo and head to bed—alone."

"Yeah...."
He paused so long, I thought he'd forgotten me. "I believe we
started at noon, but I could be mistaken. There was food, then there
was booze. Now I'm lying on Colt's floor staring at the ceiling
clutching a half empty bottle and talking to you."